Mutual Fascination
by Romasi
Summary: In the twilight of war, a moments silence brings revelations, realizations, and the knowledge that nothing will ever be the same.


I don't know where this came from, but it had to be written. While I have nothing against slash, this is not. I realize that Voldemort is out of character but he has accepted his fate. Rated for general oddness. 

Mutual Fascination

It was creepy. To wander from the chaos of the corridors to the silence of the inner sanctum. The yells from the halls faded into nothingness, and the storm outside came through as only a few dull thuds. Harry's footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked forward, down stone passages and past stone windows and through stone archways feeling alternately smothered and then secure. The door at the end of the passage had, predictably enough, the symbol of a large snake on it, curved around the hilt of a dagger. And when Harry spoke, it opened.

The room he stood in was large enough that he couldn't see the ceiling through the gloom, though Harry swore he could see a thin trickle of dust fall whenever the thunder boomed outside. It was ancient, that much he was sure of. Thin buttresses snaked up the wall with a hint of curve at the top, showing the roof arched and was not flat. The hall, for that's what it was, had a musty scent, reminiscent of long centuries, stale air, and a thousand small creatures that had lived, breathed, and died inside the crumbling walls.

But that wasn't what Harry was here for. No, the man he had come to find sat in a chair that could quite easily be called a throne, elevated on a dais that sat at the far wall. It was here, in a manor that had once been his home, that Lord Voldemort chose to have the final battle. It was here that he wanted to die. A man returned to whence he came to take his final leave of the earth. In a place as decayed as he was, and yet still retaining an ethereal presence that could be found nowhere else and never again.

Harry could see Voldemort's eyes glowing dimly in the pale light of the early morning sun that was breaking through the clouds. For once, he was not afraid. The building in which he stood gave a surreal feeling to the day, making it ludicrous to believe that a final battle would occur in these tight quarters. A hex in these closed spaces would surely bring the house down around himself and Voldemort both. Harry wondered if it wasn't what the man across for him had planned.

Harry's eyes met red again, and for moment he wondered what life would be like without his mortal enemy. Voldemort had been a part of his life since he had been born, whether he had known it or not. The scar on his forehead was a constant reminder of this one person whom Harry was connected to in more ways than he could count. His life had been dominated by Voldemort, whether it was watching, fighting, or running from him, and for a sudden fearful moment he wondered what he would _do_ when Voldemort was gone. He had heard people speak of finding the person who matched them in all things, a soulmate if you will, but this man was literally the other half of Harry's soul.

For the last seven years he had been the first thing Harry thought of after waking and the last thing he pondered on before sleep. He knew the man's thoughts and his habits. He could tell you that Voldemort liked music and sunsets and oddly enough, kippers on toast. That he had loved and he had hated and he liked to hurt Lucius Malfoy because he was such an annoying prat. And when Draco had told Harry that there was no such thing as black and white, he had never spoken truer words. For Harry had seen into the mind of Lord Voldemort, and ignoring all the cruelly sadistic parts, it was very much like Harry's own.

He took a few more tentative steps toward the dais, and Lord Voldemort stood to meet him, though neither man raised his wand. The silence was thick between them, pushing back any declarations that Harry might have made. Standing here, both of them without followers, without their watchers, he found himself unwilling to break the quiet peace and unable to do anything but. When he opened his mouth, however, the words that came rushing out were none that he had ever thought of saying before. Unconsciously, perhaps, the only words he'd ever needed to ask found their way to the front.

"May I touch you?"

He wondered idly if it was possible for glowing red eyes to flicker with emotion, because he knew the man was surprised, and a little curious. Obviously he had not been expecting that. Maybe, "prepare to die" or, "this is for my family," or something else so painfully clichéd, but not if Harry Potter could lay his dirty, mudblood once-removed hands upon the Dark Lord himself.

"It won't burn you, will it?" he queried, vividly remembering Professor Quirrel withering in agony beneath his touch, turning slowly to ashes, leaving nothing but a pile of dust on the floor. And again he got a nagging sense of surprise and wondered if when he was this close he could truly read Voldemort's mind.

"No, it should not," the other man hissed slowly, looking horribly uncertain for the Lord of All Things Evil, but he did not flinch when Harry touched his face.

Harry was silently serious, his fingers tracing Voldemort's face with careful touches. Memorizing the way the eyes slanted, and how the skin wrinkled _here_ and _here_. How the nose was so misshapen and the pale skin contrasted strangely with his own. Marking down their differences as if he would remember them always. Marveling as his mind superimposed the image of a young Tom Riddle over the ravaged face in front of him, wondering sadly how a man could fall so far. And when he said,

"I know you're not really evil. You're only doing what you thought was best," the Dark Lord's knees seemed to give out and he sat back down on his throne. Harry briefly doubted the instinct that made him follow the man down and curl up in his lap like a child in the arms of a parent. But he felt safe there. Felt welcomed, even. He thought that maybe, by taking his father away, Voldemort had become like a replacement. A presence in his life that had forced Harry to learn all the things that normal people took a lifetime to understand.

He had shown Harry pain, had taken nearly everyone and everything that Harry cared about away from him, had given him sleepless nights and grueling days. He had taught him terror and destruction, how to kill and how to be killed, and had personally walked Harry down to the gates of Hell to stare in the face of Death himself. But also, Harry had learned how to live. He had discovered how to love and be loved in return, had taught a Dark Lord that there were things more important in life than power, and in the end had known enough to cherish everything he had lost because there's always a chance it can be taken away, and nothing's really gone forever.

And isn't that, he questioned himself, what a father does? This and more he pondered as he buried his face into Voldemort's collarbone, inhaling the scent of death that lingered there. Knowing that if this was a different world it could very well be him on that throne with some distressed and obviously insane man-boy nuzzling his throat. So then he asked a question that had been nagging him from the beginning. Can a soul be separated? Can two that are one become two again?

"When you die, will I die with you?"

The man underneath him, didn't blink. Voldemort had expected that. Had known that it was his time to leave the world, because the young must eventually over come the old and the strong will always fall to someone stronger. Harry _felt_ his resignation. Had the benefit of experiencing the pleasure of knowing you are going to die and longing for it at a time when he wasn't dying. And when the feeling left him, he felt depressed and exhausted, knowing what it took for a proud man to envy the dead.

After a slight pause, Voldemort answered. "I hadn't thought it. You were alive before I marked you, it is only natural that you would go on that way. I must die so that you may live, they are the words of prophecy." And Harry felt reassured. Shifting slightly, he sat up, and after fighting himself for a moment, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against those of the older man, before pushing himself off completely.

As he moved away Voldemort spoke. "You could do this. You could take my place and succeed. I didn't have the power, or the strength, but you do."

The words struck Harry and sent his thoughts whirling. He remembered letters and sorting hats, Slytherin and Gryffindor, and the Dark Forest. He remembered Cedric and Sirius, graveyards and Ministries, and an aching feeling in his gut that wouldn't let him sleep at night. He thought about crumbling ceilings and ancient houses and dying men. He smiled ruefully.

"I'm not brave enough," he said as he turned and raised his hand.

"Avada Kedavra."

And the world was washed with white.


End file.
